


Roudoudou

by KillerQueer1996



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Français | French, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-24 23:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17110247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerQueer1996/pseuds/KillerQueer1996
Summary: You're a recent university graduate, traveling home from France to New Orleans on the same train as a certain Cajun marine. After a less-than-ideal, although exciting, introduction, you find you’re unable to rid yourself of the persistent courting of Merriell "Snafu" Shelton.





	1. Feisty & Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> This piece contains a fair amount of french, as well as some New Orleans slang. Any french will be translated directly after in parenthesis, and any slang terms will be defined in the a/n at the end of each chapter.

As you board the train home to New Orleans, you tug on your dress and huff, irritated that you let your friend talk you into wearing such a girlie garment. You're a graduate from one of the most prestigious universities in France, for God's sake, and while your friend was constantly occupied by thoughts of marriage, you are far too independent for that (although your mother wouldn't call it "independent", she'd call it "stubborn").

"Arrête ça!" ("Stop that!") your friend swats at your hands, and you roll your eyes.

"Je me sens stupide." ("I feel stupid.") you shoot back at her, and then add in English, "Can we just focus on getting to our table, please?" You know you're being curter than you need to be, but you still cant help almost shuddering at the thought of being ogled by all these strangers, and have convinced yourself the only way out is the safety of your seat.

You see your table is on the end, as tucked away as possible for a middle seat, and let yourself relax a bit. But the sensation is short lived, as a deep, warm voice hits your ears and simply states, "Hiya." You sharply turn, and find yourself face to face with an army man with tan skin and green eyes. Your stomach flips, mostly out of nervousness as you brace yourself for the exact situation you were dreading the moment you put on this cursed dress, but also because this man is...well...very pretty.

"I'm Merriell Shelton," he continues, his accent a drawl similar to yours, but much thicker. His smile seems warm and harmless, and you've almost convinced yourself to return the introduction, when the corner of his mouth crinkles ever so slightly and his eyes twinkle, turning that warm smile into a devious smirk. "How 'bout I take you to the back of the train an' you can show me your caboose?"

Suddenly there's a ringing in your ears and you're seeing red, and every blink of his lashes or breath he takes has become infuriating. Before you even realize what you're doing, your arm is moving on it's own, raising above your head as your palm opens and...

Smack!

You still don't quite know what's happened until he places his hand tenderly on the side of his, now, pink cheek. He's still smiling, perhaps even wider than before, and refuses to break eye contact. Your instinct is to apologize, but you trample the thought, turning with a small grunt to finally arrive at your seat. Your friend (who you almost forgot was there, and honestly might as well haven't been, as she was no help at all) scurries around the still frozen soldier and sits opposite you.

"Feisty," you hear him breathe, joining some other young men in uniform at a table not far away enough from you, in your opinion. His comrades start poking fun at him for you're little exchange. You, on the other hand, are still fuming, so outraged that you cant stop glaring at him. He bends his head to light a cigarette and takes a deep drag, leaning back in his chair before tilting his head upward and blowing out a long cloud of smoke. You're so immersed in watching the muscles in his jaw move that you jump when your friend places her hand on yours, reminding you of her presence yet again.

"Quel connard." ("What an asshole.") you grumble softly.

"Oui, mais un trou du cul mignon!" ("Yes, but a cute asshole!") your friend giggles. You roll your eyes at her, wondering in the many years you've known her how your eyes still haven't rolled right out of their sockets. "S'il me demandait de l'accompagner à l'arrière du train," (If he asked me to accompany him to the back of the train,") she continues, "j'irais sans hésiter." ("I would go without hesitation.")

"Je pense que ça fait trop longtemps que tu n'as pas été touché," ("I think it's been too long since you've been touched.") You quip back at her, smiling wickedly. She squeals and swats at your hand, the both of you laughing together.

Now a bit calmer, you glance back over to the army man's table, and find him staring at you intently, casually rolling his half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He leans into the center of the table, as if to share a secret with his companions, but speaks just loud enough that you can also hear.

"I'mma get that girl," he states matter of factly. You can't help the way your stomach flips again, half of you quickly re-filling with indignation, and half of you filling with...something else.

"Leave her alone," you hear one of his buddies reply.

"You boy's watch," he continues unwaveringly, "I'mma get that girl."

* * *

After what seems like an interminable amount of time (you're sure it feels longer for some practical reason, and not because of the way your new "friend" keeps winking at you from his table), you hear your stop called and rush as quickly as possible off the train, grateful that your friend had already gotten off an hour ago. You love her to pieces, but she would've just slowed you down.

As you descend the final step, you let out an involuntary whine at seeing the luggage all stacked together. Trudging over, you use the last ounce of your energy to bend over and play an unwanted game of hide-and-seek with your bag.

"Well, hiya, feisty!" comes an all too familiar voice from behind you. You glare over your shoulder and are not surprised to see the army man grinning suavely behind you, although the left corner of his mouth cant fully extend up his now swollen cheek. You stand to face him, fighting to suppress the guilt that's threatening to bubble up.

"You're startin' to look a little black-and-blue," you state.

"I'd wear ya bo bo proudah than any medal they could give me," he quickly flirts back, using the cutesy phrase to his full advantage. Goddamn, he's quick on his feet! It'd be a substantially more attractive quality if you weren't so annoyed by it. "I was hopin' you'd be be gettin' off in New Awlins," he continues, and you snort at his crass double entendre.

"What a coincidence, I was hopin' you'd fall off," you bite back. He purses his smiling lips together and lets out a low breath.

"Oh, I like you," he bites his lip. You suddenly have the urge to become completely re-involved in finding your luggage. "Need a hand?" comes another chuckled double entendre. You remain silent, which he takes for a confirmation, and he begins to search along side you. He keeps "accidentally" brushing your hand with his during the search.

"So how long you fixin' to visit here fo?" he casually asks.

"I'm not, I live here." You plan to keep your answer short and sweet, but that nagging part of you that wants to put him in his place pushes more through your lips. "I've just graduated magna cum laude from the University of Toulouse."

He responds with a long whistle. "I knew you was clevah..." The genuine complement catches you off guard, and you stand up as he continues to search. "...a body as sexy as yours gotta have a sexy brain to match." You can see his shoulders tense and hear him brace himself for your inevitable response.

"Asshole!" you deliver, smacking the back of his head. He chuckles deeply from his stomach, turning to hand you your bag. Your exasperation fades into tired curiosity. "How...how'd you know this one's mine?"

He smiles and points to your initials engraved in the leather of the case. "Clevah people always put they names on they things," he replies, "and you can jus' call me Snafu, darlin'."

Now it's your turn to chuckle. "'Snafu' may be the dumbest name I've evah heard," you inform him, stretching out your arm to hail the oncoming cab. It stops in front of you, and you confidently add, "besides, I prefer to call ya asshole."

He's all cheeky grins and dancing eyes as he opens the taxi door. You bend down to enter the vehicle, and he closes the door behind you, leaning against the open window. "An' what can I call you, feisty?"

You debate giving him a fake name, or just telling the driver to step on it, but something about the way he's looking at you, casually grazing his teeth over his bottom lip, overrides your pettiness.

"You can just call me Jolie, darlin'," you echo his words back to him.

As the cab pulls away from the curb, he shouts after you, "I prefer feisty!"

* * *

You open your refrigerator door and sigh. It's been a week since you've been home and you'd managed to stretch the last of your groceries to now. But no matter how long you stare at the empty shelves, food is refusing to appear, meaning you need to get up off you ass and head to the market. A quick shower and cup of coffee later, and you're off, canvas bag in hand. As you make your way down the street, an older woman shakes her head disapprovingly at you, and you can hear your mother's voice reminding you that even running mundane errands requires a skirt, not pants, because "you never know who you'll run into".

And as you arrive at the market and see him sitting on the low stone wall at the entrance, you silently curse your mother for being right.

"Feisty!" Merriell calls out, his face lighting up. His shirt is unbuttoned, exposing his olive chest, and you can't help but notice he's put slightly more meat on his bones. He jumps up when you finally reach him, grabbing your hand and kissing the back of it. You smile and chuckle at the ridiculousness of him.

"Asshole," you say, more kindly to him than you've said it before, and in one swift movement he's taken your bag into his right hand, looped your hand around his left arm, and began escorting you through the market.

"Love the pants," he comments, "practical...an' shapely." He peers around to look at your backside, but you tighten your grip on his arm and force him forward.

"What on earth are you doin' here?" you ask him, unable to keep from smiling.

"Waitin' fo you," he states obviously. "I figured you'd be needin' to make groceries sometime."

"Fair enough, but how'd ya know I'd be here?" He shifts your canvas bag from his hand to the crook of his arm so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out.

It's your luggage tag.

"I nicked this offa ya bag while you got in the cab." he explained. You can't stop your jaw from dropping as he continues proudly, "All I had ta do was find the nearest market to ya an' wait."

You stop dead in your tracks, unable to process this information and walk at the same time. You open your mouth to speak, and you have about a million questions swirling around your head, but no sound comes of you. Merriell starts to laugh so hard a tear rolls down his cheek.

"Settin' aside the thievery and stalking..." you slowly start.

"Which I do apologize fo," he interjects in the breath between his laughs.

"...what'd you do, just on sit on that wall all day for a whole week until I showed up?" you finish, starting to laugh yourself as you realize how ridiculous that sounds. Why would a stranger you had barely two conversations with, and slapped across the face to boot, have any desire to...?

"Yeah, that's exactly what I did," he interrupts your thought. You search his face for any indication of a joke, but you can't find any. What you do notice is how his eyes have faint bags under them, and his nose and cheeks are tinted red from sun overexposure. You feel your breath catch in your lungs as you realize he's serious.

Merriell decides to begin to walk again, pulling you alongside him, but doesn't speak, letting you absorb the revelation at your own pace. And one hell of a revelation it is. Your rational mind is screaming at you, begging you to get as far away as possible from this unstable man, but every other instinct in you is fascinated (flattered, even?) by everything about him, including his...unusual courting methods.

Eventually he begins to talk you you again, asking you easy questions about your childhood and time at university, reciprocating with funny stories from his own childhood and fond memories of his marine friends. You continue to swap anecdotes as you shop, making your final stop at the bread stand.

"Jolie!" the baker bellows, standing to grasp your face in his massive hands and kissing each of your cheeks twice. "J'ai entendu dire que tu es rentré à la maison! Nous saluons le retour!" ("I heard you came home! Welcome back!")

"Il est bon de vous revoir," ("It's good to see you again") you smile warmly. You feel Merriell's arm twitch and tighten, but are too absorbed in catching up to see the way he's staring at you. You thank the baker for the rolls, and the free baguette he insisted on you taking, and make your way through the market entrance once more.

"He's a dear family friend," you explain to Merriell, who still hasn't said anything, as you continue to walk back up the street to your apartment. "He taught me french when I was a little girl, and it's one of the reasons I was able to attend a French university." Arriving at your gate, you pause and turn to face him. He shifts his gaze from your eyes, to your lips, and back to your eyes, and then hastily takes a step back from you. It takes you a moment to realize why, until you see him shift uncomfortably, holding your bag of groceries in front of his pants, his pupils dark and wide.

"Di'n't know ya spoke french," he announces softly but gruffly, swallowing hard. You desperately hope you're not blushing, but can feel the heat rush up your body. You take a step closer to him, reaching for your canvas bag, when he closes the final few inches of space between you.

"Jolie," he breathes your name for the first time. You hum in response, and that's all it takes for him to press his lips to yours. They're soft, firm and warm. You reach up to his face and place your hand on his jaw and he groans, making your stomach turn somersaults. When you finally pull away, he's grinning the same way he did after you slapped him...wide and excited. "Have dinner with me." He doesn't ask, but you don't answer. You just loop your arm back into his and begin to walk, your grin widening to match his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jolie means "pretty one" in French. I chose this so you can use "Jolie" as your name, or just as a pet name, hopefully making it easier to imagine yourself as her in the piece.  
> "Bo bo" - a bruise, cut, scrape, or other minor injury, usually sustained by a child.  
> "Make groceries" - Yat speak for buying groceries. It' derives from the French "faire le marché" (make the market)


	2. The Package

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece contains a fair amount of french, as well as some New Orleans slang. Any french will be translated directly after in parenthesis, and any slang terms will be defined in the a/n at the end of each chapter.

It’s been three weeks since that first dinner with Merriell, and you say first because there had been many dinners since. Being that he knew where you lived, you often found him waiting by your gate when you woke, and then following you wherever you needed to go that day before escorting you home at night. You had decided almost too quickly that his stalker tendencies were, in fact, endearing. Every day you spent together, he grew a little softer, a little sweeter, and as much as you enjoyed his biting banter you we’re delighted to experience this gentler side of him. You hated to admit it, but he was changing you as well. You were always fiercely independent (and always will be), but the more time you spend with Merriell the more you start to think of him as a confidant, someone to rely on, and maybe even someone to take care of you.

What never changed was his mouth. Whether it was trailing hot kisses down the side of your throat, or whispering one of the several short (but exceptionally dirty) french phrases he had taught himself, his mouth made your knees give out without fail. The first time he reached around you to grasp your behind and growled in your ear, “Ce cul…” (“This ass…”) you’d almost passed out.

Yet, for some reason unknown by you, he’s resisted, no, refused to sleep with you. At first you assumed it was shyness and thought it cute, but after three weeks of deep kisses and heavy petting, all ending with him abruptly calling it a night before your clothes were even off, you no longer think it cute. You’re completely frustrated, and you can tell he is too by the way he struggles just to walk down the street after you’ve been together.

Whatever the reason, you’re done waiting, and you intend to rectify the situation this morning.

Merriell is sitting on your sofa, feet up, reading the paper, humming a tune you can’t quite place. He’d been such a constant presence lately that you honestly can’t remember even letting him in, but as he looks up from his paper and winks at you, you decide you couldn’t care less. You’re about to approach him, trying to refrain from tackling him into the couch and screaming “Take me already!”, when there comes a knock at the door. You begrudgingly answer it, but your mood immediately lightens when you see it’s a package your friend from University has sent.

“Merriell!” you call, placing the package on the kitchen table. “Venez ici, (“Come here,”) it’s a parcel from France!” He folds the paper and places it on the floor before standing to join you.

“Who from?” he asks, placing his hands on the back of the chair your sitting on. He watches over your shoulder as you open the box.

“My old roommate from Tolouse,” you answer, reaching around the tissue paper to pull out a bag of shells with golden brown centers. “C'est magnifique! (“That’s wonderful!”) She sent me Roudoudou!”

Merriell chuckles at the funny name, and cocks his head. “Roudoudou?”

You tilt your head back to look up at him. “It’s caramel. We used to buy ‘em all the time at this lil’ sweet shop in Bagatelle.” You look down at the candy and then back up at Merriell. “Well whataya know?” you say cheekily, opening the bag and pulling out a sugar filled shell, holding it next to his cheek. “You match!” You giggle profusely and he fake-scowls.

“I am withou’ a doubt not candy colored,” he protests.

“You most certainly are,” you insist. Instinctively, you dip your finger into the shell, coating it in caramel, and swipe it across his cheek. “Why, it’s disappeared!” you exclaim, the both of you erupting into fits of laughter. You notice, however, that Merriell has shifted awkwardly behind you, uncomfortably crossing one leg over the other. And that’s when you see it. The strain in the front of his pants.

All laughter stops, both your and his breathing becoming heavy. You turn in your chair and kneel so you’re face to face with him. His green eyes are becoming blacker and blacker by the second. Just one more degree of tension will cause the pot of your mutual frustration to boil over.

“I…should get goin’…” He starts to leave, but you grab his wrist and hold him steady, using your other hand to reach up to his face. You swipe your thumb across his cheek, collecting the caramel you put there, and refuse to break eye contact as you put your finger in your mouth and suck.

Suddenly, Merriell grasps your face in his hands, and slams his mouth to yours, bruising it in an all-possessing kiss. His lips are grinding against yours, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip, when he lifts you up from the chair and wraps your legs around his waist. He’s digging his fingers under your upper thighs, holding you in place against him. Your playful giggles quickly turn to gasps as he begins to walk, his erection brushing against your core with each step.

“D’you know why I haven’ made love to ya yet?” he growls, carrying you through the living room. “‘Cause I wanted our first time ta be slow…sweet…propah…” he continues, listing adjectives as he climbs the stairs, his eyes locked on yours as his voice gets deeper and deeper. Finally, you arrive at your bedroom, and Merriell all but throws you down onto the bed, standing intimidatingly over you. “But you…” he begins to unbutton his shirt, “…you been rilin’ me up fo weeks. Shit, there was times I had to run away from ya to keep myself from just pushin’ you up against a wall.” You’re desperately trying not to pant as his shirt falls open, revealing his slim but toned chest and abdomen. “So now, there ain’t gonna be no sweet.” He kicks off one shoe. “There ain’t gonna be no slow.” He kicks off the other. “And it sure as hell ain’t gonna be propah.”

The volume of your moan at just his words startles you, but it’s not as startling as the affect it has on Merriell. He bends down and grips your shirt like a madman, tearing it apart as the buttons clink across the floor. For a split second he pauses, wondering if he’s gone too far, but he sees his hunger reflected in your eyes and he wraps one arm around you to grip your waist and pushes his other hand into your hair before continuing to ravage your mouth.

“Mais yeah…” he rasps, his mouth beginning to place blazing kisses down the side of your face and neck. When his lips graze your collar bone you hum, and his hips buck involuntarily against you. He trails his tongue down to the center of your chest, sucking the flesh of your breast into his mouth just above the neckline of your bra, and you gasp, because oh, god you had no idea how incredible that could feel.

When he finally looks up at you, his pupils are completely black. His lips are slightly swollen and his hair is beginning to curl at his temple. He looks like complete and utter sin as he gazes down proudly on the deep purple mark he’s left on your breast.

“Baise moi…” (“Fuck me…”) you exclaim breathily, and the growl he responds with almost finishes you off untouched.

“Believe you me, I’m gonna,” is all he promises, sitting up and pulling his shirt off the rest of the way, his pants soon following. As you remove your own pants, your eyes trail down his body, coming to rest at his cock, which, even under his boxers, is pointing directly at you, leaving a wet spot in the front of his underwear. You lick your lips as he leans you back onto the bed and bends down to kiss you once more, but just before his lips reconnect with yours, the palm of his hand presses against your damp panties, causing you and he to moan in unison.

“Well, well, well…” Merriell teases, dragging his fingers up and down the center of your panties. “…baby girl, you ah positively drippin’.” 

Your cheeks flush a bright pink at his words. You knew he had a smart mouth - a sassy mouth, sure - but a filthy mouth? You assumed he was all talk, but you had no idea he would back that talk up in such a depraved way, and it’s absolutely wrecked you. Merriell hums, slowly sliding his hand into the top of your panties. “Nevah thought lil old me’d be able to shut ya up.” His voice is drenched in pride and lust, and as much as you’d love to quip back, you are utterly incapable.

Finally, his fingers touch your sensitive skin, and you do everything in your power to keep from crying out. The pads of his fingers are large and rough, and he dips them through your folds before rubbing them in a circle mercilessly against your clit. You’re fairly certain you’ve bitten a hole right through your cheek in an effort to remain somewhat dignified, but Merriell can tell, and he will have none of your dignity.

“Uh uh uh,” he chastises. “As pretty as you look, I want ta hear yah beg for me.” He slides one finger inside you, and begins to move it in and out of you oh so slowly. You moan in your closed mouth, still biting your cheek, determined to hold on to some illusion of power. “Oh, baby, I need ta hear yah scream,” he continues, sliding a second finger into you, picking up the pace ever so slightly. Your mouth falls open but you hold back the sounds with your last ounce of resolve, but then he stops for a moment, and in that moment you lose your mind. Your eyes snap open, and your resolve evaporates into thin air, and you stare him right in his smug, gorgeous face and deeply moan.

“Don’t. Fucking. Stop.”

If you hadn’t seen his mouth for yourself, you would’ve told yourself it was him who had said it. But you had been watching his mouth, and his lips hadn’t moved. He hadn’t said it. You did.

With a guttural snarl, Merriell rips your panties off, tossing both your legs over his shoulders, and shoving both fingers back into you, pumping them frantically. You cry out, the seal of your decency broken, as you climb rapidly toward your release. Merriell feels you tighten around him, and just when you think you’ve reached the peak of pleasure he suction cups his lips to your clit and you cry out his name as you’re pushed over the edge of a cliff so high you can’t see the earth below.

As your coming down, your breathing becomes as close to normal as possible, you glance down and see Merriell between your legs, wearing a grin identical to the one he’d flashed you after you’d slapped him that day on the train almost three months ago. You smile down back at him and run your hands through his hair as he climbs back over you. He kisses you softly, and you’re so wrapped up in the taste of his lips against yours that you hardly notice the bed shift as he pulls down his boxers and lines himself up to you.

“We jus’ gettin’ started, baby girl,” he whispers gently, before plunging into you with such a stark contrast that you scream, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. For a moment he stills, silently checking in with you again, but when you roll your hips his head falls into your neck and he whines, pounding into you. You’re already so oversensitive that every snap of his hips is delicious agony, and as you unabashedly cry out, you feel bittersweet knowing this wont last long.

“I can’t..hold on..much…longah,” Merriell grunts, reading your mind. You open your eyes and see his twisted shut, his brow furrowed and dotted with sweat, and his mouth open and panting. He looks so beautiful in the throws of passion, and seeing him in all his glory has you quickly experiencing that familiar climb deep in the pit of your gut.

“Merriell…” You have barely any voice left, but at the sound of your voice speaking his name, his eyes fly open, holding yours in their gaze as if by magnets.

All it takes is his rough thumb pressing directly into your clit and the simple words, “Let go, baby,” and you’re gone, tumbling once again headfirst over that miraculous mountain of pleasure. The feeling of you tightening around him is too much, and he barely gets out a strangled, “I’m gonna c…” before he pulls himself out of you and releases over your stomach, arching his back and moaning, head thrown back.

He collapses on top of you, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple before rolling over to your side. For a while there’s silence, but soon you feel the bed start to shake, and when you turn confusedly to him, you see he’s giggling so hard he can’t breathe. You are about to comment something sarcastic, but he looks so spent and just deliriously happy, and when you realize you feel the same way you join him in unbridled laughter.

“Merriell Shelton, you will be the death of me yet,” you manage to giggle. Merriell looks at you, sighing, reaching over to smooth down your hair so lovingly your heart skips a bit.

“You have single handly ruin'd all othah women fo me,” he confesses, pressing a firm but caring kiss on your lips as you both wrap your arms around each other, drifting into sleep contentedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mais yeah" - Cajun French saying that translates literally to “but yes”. It’s used to express excitement or agreement


	3. A Cognac & A Vodka On The Rocks

You’re standing in the kitchen, trying to will the eggs to cook faster, when you feel an arm slide around your waist. In the sixth months you’ve been living together, Merriell never makes his presence known vocally. He makes his presence known physically. And if you weren’t already running late, you’d have more than welcomed that physicality, but this morning is important, so you hip-check some space between the two of you, knowing his expression is one of mock offense without even needing to look up.

“Well then, good mo’nin’ to you too,” he chuckles sarcastically, but takes a step back to give you space as you grab two plates and toss a pile of eggs on each of them. You hold the plates in one hand, and grab his arm with the other, leading him hurriedly to the kitchen table before plopping him down in a seat and dropping one of the plates in front of him. As you take the seat across from him and begin to shovel eggs into your mouth, you finally look up and see him with an all too familiar smirk on his face.

“I’ve got no time for your shenanigans, Rou,” you warn him, realizing your mistake as his smirk becomes a full-on grin.

You still stand by your opinion that “Snafu” is the dumbest name you’d ever heard, but found that the name “Merriell” didn’t lend itself easily to nicknames (and it’s kind of a mouthful to call out in the heat of the moment). You’d therefore resolved to call him “Rou”, after the caramel that had led to your first time together, and had explained to Merriell one morning, “‘cause you’re my favorite candy now.” A sentiment he wholeheartedly agreed with, you remind yourself, as you recall him taking you right there on the kitchen table in response. And judging by the grin he’s wearing now, he’s reminding himself of that encounter as well.

“No. Time. Merriell,” you reiterate, forcing the mood to shift away from sultry and back to business. You leave a moment of silence to see if he’ll remember why this morning is so important on his own, but quickly realize how unrealistic that is. “It’s my first day at the college today?” you offer, standing to clear your place as his face falls.

“I cannot believe I forgot,” he chastises himself, “you only been talkin’ ‘bout it all month.” He quickly grabs your plate from you, silently offering to clear your place for you as an apologetic gesture. You take a deep breath and let out a sigh, smiling at him in acceptance as he releases the tension in his shoulders. “Them students ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em,” he praises. You give his arm a little squeeze before rushing off to collect the rest of your things. 

Seeing you’re ready to leave, Merriell drops the plate in the sink and rushes to open the door for you. He leans in, and gives you a quick peck on the lips before whispering, “…an’ them boys are all gonna pine for the sexiest English professah they evah have seen.” He ushers you through the door with a smack on your ass, waving as you turn to blow him a kiss and hurry down the street.

* * *

That night, you find yourself in the same dress you’d worn on the train home from France almost a year ago, walking to meet Merriell for dinner at a rather high end restaurant. He’d called you during your lunch break with the idea to celebrate your first day teaching at Centenary College of Louisiana, and you’d happily accepted.

“You jus’ come home an’ get ready, I’ll take care a the rest an’ meet ya there,” he’d said and then hung up. You’d wondered at the time why you wouldn’t just go together, but chalked it up to him still being embarrassed about forgetting your big day this morning. Plus, Merriell had a flair for the dramatic.

You can’t help the butterflies in your stomach when you see him, leaning against the wall of the restaurant, finishing his cigarette under the glow of a street lamp. With him in his formal uniform, it’s almost as if you’re transported back in time to the first day you met. You finally catch his eye, and you see him sharply inhale, his mouth falling ever so slightly open, before snapping it shut. He quickly drops the butt off his cigarette to the ground and steps on it, straightening himself up and clearing his throat.

When you finally reach him, he just continues to stare at you, so you decide to bring your hand up to cup his right cheek as you kiss his left. This seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was in long enough for him to finally exhale, “Belle chose…” (“Beautiful thing…”). He extends his arm to you, and you take it, letting him lead you into the restaurant, but not before peering around the back of you too add, “…an’ that caboose!”, grinning wildly as you use your free hand to smack his shoulder.

The place is packed, and even though Merriell made reservations, your table isn’t ready yet. Merriell seems uncharacteristically agitated by this development, but a soft touch of your hand to his seems to ground him, and you both decide to wait for your table over a drink at the bar.

Luckily there are two barstools left, and you quickly claim both of them. The bartender, an extremely built, darker skinned man, spots you immediately and leaves the customer he was speaking to in the middle of her sentence to wait on you instead.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” he leans against the counter, flexing his arm much more than necessary and flashing a toothy smile. You smile kindly back, however Merriell, who appears to be invisible to the bartender, does not.

“A cognac and a vodka on the rocks, s'il te plaît et merci,” (…“please and thank you,”) you order, intertwining your hand with Merriell’s. If the bartender notices your gesture, he completely ignores it, and plows ahead.

“Ah, pas seulement jolie, mais française aussi!” (“Ah, not only pretty, but french too!”) he chuckles lowly, sauntering away to make your drinks as Merriell tenses next to you. While his spoken french is still fairly juvenile, sixth months with you has him reading and understanding french almost fluently.

You give his hand a squeeze and smile at him, but inwardly wonder what has him so tightly wound tonight. Sure, he can’t be thrilled you're being flirted with right in front of him, but it’s not like him to be so short-tempered and jealous. Either way, you’re relieved the bartender seems to have finally gotten the hint when he silently returns with your drinks and leaves to wait on other customers. But your relief doesn’t last long when you see there’s something scribbled on your napkin.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you read “Une jolie dame française mérite mieux qu'un soldat maigre,” (“A pretty French lady deserves better than a skinny soldier,”) followed by a phone number. You discretely try to discard the napkin before Merrill sees, but he’s too quick, snatching it from your hand before balling it up into his palm and slamming his fist down onto the bar.

Everyone who wasn’t already staring is now watching Merriell attempt to climb over the bar, his arms outstretched as if he’s strangling the air, and shouting, “WHY YOU SONOFUH BITCH!” You grab him by his belt and pull him off of the bar. He turns to face you, his eyes wild, but you hold his gaze and hiss sternly, “Bathroom.”

Merriell doesn’t even take a moment to collect himself, he just storms off towards the back of the restaurant with a hundred pairs of eyes glued to him. As he disappears, you hear the bathroom door open and slam shut. The show now over, voices quickly refill the room. The bartender, with a skull apparently thicker than his arms, moseys back over to you and resumes flirting. Now, it’s your turn to turn to him, fire in your eyes, as you hiss, “Va te faire foutre.” (“Go fuck yourself.”) You don’t even wait to see his stupid, speechless face before storming off to check on Merriell.

You weave through the tables and make it to the back of the restaurant, barely knocking once before the door swings open and a hand grabs your arm and pulls you inside, closing the door behind you.

Merriell is fuming. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair is completely disheveled, and as you glance at the hand that’s still gripping your arm, you see the knuckles are cracked and slightly bloody. You dart your eyes quickly around the small room, spotting a fist-sized indent in the wall right above the sink.

You reach up and gently place you hands on either side oh his face, his expression melting ever so slowly from rage to hurt.

“Merriell Shelton,” you begin softly, trying not to sound as exasperated as you feel, “you know you’re the only man fo’ me. I know you know you’re the only man fo’ me. So what in the world has you so upset, mon amour?” (“…my love?”)

At your words, his expression morphs yet again from hurt to disheartened. His eye’s begin to well with tears as he lets go of your arm to reach into his pocket. Wincing as his wounded knuckles scrape the side of his pants, he pulls out a small box.

Your hands drop from his face, and you can hear your heart beating in your ears. You don’t speak or move, as if a single shift will startle what’s happening in front of you, causing the reality of it to become a mere fantasy.

“I’ve had it fo’ weeks,” he says, small voice breaking the silence. “I was waitin’ fo’ the perfect moment, an’ now that moments ruin’d.” His eyes meet yours, and know it’s your turn to begin to tear up.

“Rou,” you grab his other hand, “the first breakfast we made together, we almost burned down the kitchen. The first date we went on, you stalked me around the farmers market for hours. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, the first time we met, you ogled my ass and I slapped you across the face.” You both can’t help but chuckle at the memory. “We have nevah been perfect, and I wouldn’ have it any othah way.”

At that, he leans into you, and you wrap your arms around each other, a mess of chuckles and sniffles. After a few minutes, you pull back to look him in the eye. “So,” you each wipe tears from the other’s eyes, “can I have my ring now?” you ask.

Merriell’s face almost splits in two from the expansive width of his smile. “You’re sayin’ yes?”

You roll your eyes, despite sporting a matching smile across your face. “Of course, cancre.” (“…dunce.”)

The pain in Merriell’s hand seems to vanish completely as he opens the box and slides the ring onto your finger. Tossing the empty box to the side, he slides one arm around your waist and places his other hand behind your head, pulling you into a deep, consuming kiss that has you gasping for air when it breaks.

He rests his forehead against yours, pausing for a moment just to breathe with you before growling, “T'es la mienne.” (“You’re mine.”)

You couldn’t stop the small moan that escapes from the back of your throat if you tried, and the reaction it has on Merriell is immediate. The hand that was placed on the back of your head grips your hair as you’re pulled into another, hungrier kiss. Your bodies flush against each other, you can feel him hard against your hip, and he groans into your mouth as you reach down to palm him through his pants.

With one hand, you unzip his pants and pull out his already stiff cock, giving it a few slow strokes before dropping to you knees. You look up at Merriell through your lashes, making sure he can see the ring on your finger as you grip him. He’s speechless as his fingers move against your scalp, wordlessly encouraging you to continue. You lean forward and press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, licking a long, broad strip from base to tip than makes Merriell’s eyes roll back in his head.

When you wrap your lips around him, he curses and stumbles backwards until he hits the wall, leaning against it for support as you suck him. It only takes a minute before he’s pulling you off of him, looking at you with an overwhelming amount of lust and adoration. Helping you to your feet, he leads you two steps backwards before closing the lid of the toilet and sitting on it.

He runs his hands up the backs of your legs and over your thighs before hooking his thumbs into the sides of your panties and sliding them down. You place your hands on his shoulders for balance as you step out of them one foot at a time.

“Come sit on Papa’s lap, babydoll,” he softly commands. You whimper at the dirty nicknames he’s given himself and you, feeling the effect of them between your legs. You hike up your dress and straddle him, placing your hands on his chest for balance. You roll your hips back and forth a few times, causing his cock to slide against your already slick clit. You both gasp at the sensation.

“F-fuck, baby doll, your kitty feels too damn good,” Merriell sputters. You know he’s not the only one who’s close, so you cut the teasing short, lifting up your hips to sink down over him. You thighs barely touch his before he starts to thrust up into you. The sensation of him inside you never ceases to surprise you. You always try and remind yourself that it can’t possibly be as incredible as you remember, but he always proves you wrong.

And this is no exception. With you riding him in time to his thrusts, you’re both needy, whimpering messes in a matter of minutes. When his hands grip your waist in a bruising desperation, you lean forward, bite his ear and whisper, “Viens pour moi, Papa.” (“Cum for me, Papa.”) Merriell gives three more erratic thrusts, stilling on the third, and the feeling of him spilling inside you pushes you over the edge as well, causing you to pulse around him.

For a moment you just stay there, draped over him as you both pant happily together. A knock on the door startles the both of you, and voice awkwardly announces, “Ugh, Corporal Shelton? Your table is ready, sir.”

“Be right out,” you call back, as Merriell’s eyes go wide. “What?” you ask, feigning innocence as he beams at you.

“You will be the death of me yet,” he replies, finally maneuvering you off of his lap before quickly dampening a towel to run between your legs. You both straighten yourselves up, Merriell staring at you in the mirror as you redo your hair.

“What,” you ask, sincerely this time, “are you starin’ at?”

“You,” he replies as if only an idiot wouldn’t know.

You roll your eyes at him, thinking to yourself that they’ll probably get stuck like that one day now that you’ll be spending the rest of your lives together. It’s not an unpleasant thought.

Looking respectable again you reach to open the door, but Merriell grabs you instead, placing a slow, sweet kiss on your lips.

“Told ya I’d get ya, girl,” he whispers, opening the bathroom door.

“Asshole,” you grumble happily, smacking his ass as he walks through the door.

Merriell turns, eyes surprised and smile wide as you take his bruised hand in your ring-clad one and lead him to your table, breathing out “Feisty,” as you take your seats.


End file.
